…of the bell

A silent spring wood
a place well hidden from all
a leaf chased by wind
a cloud of sparrows startled
still a peace remains
the dream is quiet for now
a slow drifting boat, barely raising a ripple
the sun sinking low
throwing down long dark shadows
the silence broken
by a sudden frantic rattling
the windows trembling
in their fragile wooden frames
then from the distance
there comes the sound of the bell
as the dream stretches
effortlessly rolls over, reveals a dark face
fear rides in on a cold wind
the bell seems closer, I cannot awaken yet
I cannot recall and I do not wish to know
I dread the quiet yet I pull it close to me
I thirst for silence and die a little more inside
and strain to hear the bell toll
© Ann Bagnall
2016